


Hass Ebala-Varaad Nehraa

by Piaculum



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Dorian Pavus Has Issues, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Kidnapping, M/M, Protective The Iron Bull (Dragon Age), Re-Education, Torture
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-05
Updated: 2020-12-05
Packaged: 2021-03-09 20:41:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,589
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27892492
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Piaculum/pseuds/Piaculum
Summary: When a trip to the Storm Coast goes horribly wrong, The Iron Bull finds himself a prisoner of the Qunari with the promise of absolution if he can prove his loyalty to the Qun. He's broken hundreds of mouthy 'Vints before. What's just one more?Dorian Pavus doesn't stand a chance.
Relationships: Dalish/Skinner, Female Adaar/Josephine Montilyet, Iron Bull/Dorian Pavus
Comments: 2
Kudos: 21
Collections: Actually Adoribull Fic





	Hass Ebala-Varaad Nehraa

**Author's Note:**

> Hass ebala-varaad nehraa: "For those I watch, of which I am one."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't have a beta, so apologies in advance for any mistakes! Qunlat translations can be found at the end of the chapter :)

“Keep him close, and he will betray you. Each time worst than the last”

-Flemeth, _Dragon Age: The Stolen Throne_

* * *

The Iron Bull hated the Storm Coast. It may have even reminded him of Seheron, if it were not so cold. At least in Seheron the saltwater spray coming off of the wave crests was refreshingly cool before drying and leaving salt behind on his skin. The Storm Coast, however, seemed to both be constantly raining and constantly cold. There was always a Blade of Hessarian around, or a Red Templar, or a fucking darkspawn; at least the giant spiders only seemed to hang out in the many caves along the coastline, but even that was not guaranteed. As it were, the Storm Coast, as Sera had so aptly put it the night before, was a “big steamin’ pile o’ nug shite.”

“Give it a rest, boss,” The Iron Bull groaned. The campfire—which Vivienne set a barrier over so that it would stay alight despite the downpour—had dwindled into nothing more than a small flame, made even more noticeable by Adaar’s silhouette traversing tirelessly across the canvas walls of their shared tent as she paced restlessly outside. “It’s dark,” Bull continued, “you’ll trip over something stupid, break something stupid, and then we’ll have to call off the mission. Or, even worse, you’ll keep Ma’am awake.” Adaar pulled open the tent flaps with a sharp _thwap_ , her horns scraping gently across the top of the canvas as she stuck her head inside. What Adaar’s horns lacked in width they certainly made up for in height, twisting backward behind her skull and then abruptly up like those of an august ram. Her complexion, although usually carrying much pinker undertones than The Iron Bull’s own grey, had become increasingly more ashen as the time of their meeting with the Qun approached.

“Hey, I have a right to be nervous,” she hissed as The Iron Bull moved to shield his eye from the firelight now pouring in around him. “My parents raised me on Qunari horror stories, and now it feels like I’m walking right into one.” She made a rather displeased face, which only accented the deep-set scar running over her left cheekbone.

“Funny,” Bull grunted as he rolled over, “my Tama raised me on Tal-Vashoth horror stories, yet we seem to get along just fine.” Adaar snorted dramatically, then gulped audibly.

“Wait, you told them I’m Vashoth, right?” The panic in her voice was immediate.

“Oh shit, actually I forgo— _ow!”_

“That’s not funny, Bull!” Adaar spat in the space between them as she threw something at The Iron Bull that felt suspiciously like a rock when it hit his skin.

“Okay, okay! I told them, yes.”

“And you’re still sure this is a good idea?”

“Yes.”

“… Are you lying to me?”

“Yes.”

 _“Maker damn it, Bull!”_ Adaar spat again.

“Listen,” The Iron Bull sighed as he sat up, rubbing his arm where the maybe-rock had hit him. “You’ll do fine. You’re tough to fight and even tougher to fool. You read situations like they’re serials. You’d be an obvious pick for Ben-Hassrath, if you’d been born under the Qun. So, stop worrying about it and try to get some fucking sleep.”

“Ugh, don’t say that around Varric or he’ll try to convince me to read his novels again,” Adaar protested, even as she sat down on the cot rolled out next to him with a despondent thud. “Also, I thought you said I’d make a terrible Ben-Hassrath!”

“I did, and I still do,” Bull admitted with a shrug. “You care too much.”

“About?”

“Everything.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” Adaar protested.

“Look, boss, just try and get some sleep, alright? If you’re still feeling bad about it, we can reconsider in the morning,” the Bull conceded as he moved to lie back down. “Don’t worry, boss, we’ll get you back to Josie in no time.” This time, Adaar’s groan was succeeded by a loud _thwomp_ as she fell onto her back and pressed a travel-pillow over her face; even without the visual cue, The Iron Bull knew that she was blushing. Normally he would feel guilty about bringing up Adaar’s painfully awkward attempts at flirting with the lady ambassador, but he knew that the topic was a sure-fire way to get Adaar to stop talking; as he drifted off to sleep, the fire’s crackling now drowned out entirely by the rain, he wished he had thought to weaponize that observation sooner.

The rain had not stopped by morning. Neither had the constant pounding of The Iron Bull’s heart, which seemed to become increasingly louder in his ears with every step he took. The rendezvous point outlined in his last correspondence with the Ben-Hassrath as a few hours hike from where they had set up camp, so they had left their campsite well-before dawn. The morning chill, combined with the constant rain, was making The Iron Bull’s left ankle ache something fierce, but he had insisted like the idiot he was that he did not need to bring his brace on this particular outing, despite Krem’s insistence that he did; Stiches kept eyeing his walk with a level of suspension only a good healer could justify, but The Iron Bull had no intentions of giving Krem the satisfaction of knowing he was right. Fortunately for him, the rest of the Chargers were either too tired or too nervous to notice.

“Inquisitor, my dear, might I make a request?” Vivienne chimed sweetly just as the sun was starting to rise over the stone-covered hills in the distance. Adaar merely grunted in response; while both Vivienne and the Bull were no strangers to early mornings, Adaar and Sera were the direct opposite. Both the elf and the Vashoth had been trudging sleepily forward for the better part of an hour, sleep clinging strongly to their limbs despite Ma’am’s best efforts to wake them with Orlais’ finest black tea, which she had somehow managed to brew before anyone else had awoken.

“I understand that you and The Iron Bull have certain…. dimensional differences when compared to the rest of us,” Vivienne said, “but I would remiss if I did not ask to change tent partners on the journey back to Skyhold.”

“Whas wrong wi’d sleeping w’me?” Sera mumbled in a tone halfway between offended and exhausted. Vivienne did not even bat an eye.

“To be blunt, my dear, you smell positively horrendous. And you snore.” Sera grumbled something incoherent that sounded suspiciously along the lines of “your mum snores,” but The Iron Bull cut her off before she could finish.

“Boss, the spot should be right up ahead.” Adaar’s eyes, which before were clouded by an exhausted haze, instantly sharpened into focused. The Chargers, who had been similarly exhausted moments before, immediately straightened to attention behind them.

“Any sign of them?” Adaar asked as she waved away a sleepy high-five from Sera, who had finally managed to land on an insult for Vivienne that her sluggish brain deemed witty, though Dalish was happy to oblige and gave Sera a tired thumbs-up as she leaned against her “bow.”

“No, but our Qunari contact should be here to meet us any moment now,” Bull promised as the unease in his stomach began to rise again, a feeling halfway between excitement and nervousness.

“He is,” a voice rang from the other side of the hill as a familiar silhouette came into view. “Good to see you again, Hissrad.”

“Gatt!” The Iron Bull cried grinned as the elf approached. “Didn’t expect to see you here. Last I heard, you were still in Seheron!”

“They finally decided I’d calmed down enough to go back out into the real world,” Gatt said with a chuckle.

“Bull?” Adaar said through a forced smile as her eyes darted between the two Ben-Hassrath agents.

“Right, sorry boss,” The Iron Bull said hastily, though he kept the grin on his face. “Gatt, this is Sera, Ma’am, and the Inquisitor.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Inquisitor. Hissrad’s reports say you’re doing good work” Gatt said with a small bow, which he then extended to the rest of the party. “And a pleasure to meet the rest of you, as well.”

“Charmed,” Vivienne intoned, in a way that made it very clear that she was not. Sera, who was just managing to shake the slumber from her head, snorted softly.

“Iron Bull’s name is Hissrad?” Adaar asked, raising a sharp eyebrow as she gave the Qunari a sideward glance.

“Under the Qun, we use titles, not names,” Gatt began to explain, before The Iron Bull cut in. It was not that he did not trust Gatt to explain these things, but rather that past experience had taught him that explaining things oneself was the best way to maintain trust. And he _wanted_ to maintain trust, and not just for his purposes with the Qun; Adaar was someone he generally liked, and he hoped to keep it that way.

“My title was ‘Hissrad,’ because I was assigned to secret work. You can translate it as ‘Keeper of Illusions,’ or—”

“‘Liar,’” Gatt interjected. “It means ‘liar.’”

“Well, you don’t have to say it like _that._ ”

“Regardless, it appears we have a common enemy,” Adaar pressed on, straight to business as per usual. “I’ll admit I was hesitant when Bull told me the Qun wanted to form an alliance, but I’m willing to negotiate.”

“Hopefully this will help both our peoples,” Gatt said with a placating smile, the one The Iron Bull recognized teaching him so many years before. “Tevinter is dangerous enough without the influence of this Venatori cult. If this new form of lyrium helps them seize power in Tevinter, the war with Qunandar could get worse.”

“With this stuff, the ‘Vints could make their slaves into an army of magical freaks,” Bull added, knowing it would make all three of his party-members uncomfortable. “We could lose Seheron… and see a giant Tevinter army come marching back down here.” The gambit worked, as Adaar shifted her footing, Vivienne stiffened slightly, and Sera rather unsubtly wrinkled her nose.

“The Ben-Hassrath agree,” Gatt nodded. “That’s why we’re here. Our dreadnought is safely out of view, and out of range of any Venatori mages on shore. We’ll need to eliminate the Venatori, then signal the dreadnought so it can come in and take out the smuggler ship. Once we’re clear, I’m authorized to negotiate the terms of our alliance.” The unease in The Iron Bull’s stomach, which had lessoned upon seeing Gatt, returned full force as soon as he mentioned a dreadnought. _Crap._ Adaar shifted her footing again, seeming to consider, before turning to The Iron Bull.

“What do you think, Bull?”

“Don’t know,” he admitted, “I’ve never liked covering a dreadnought run. Too many ways for crap to go wrong. If our scouts underestimate enemy numbers, we’re dead. If we can’t lock down the Venatori mages, the ship is dead. It’s risky.”

“Riskier than letting red lyrium into Minrathous?” Gatt challenged with narrowing eyes. “This is risky, yes, but it’s our best chance to destroy the shipping operation permanently.” The Iron Bull watched as Adaar’s eyes unfocused, that way in which they did when she retreated into her own head to mull over every possible option, every possible obstacle, every possible outcome. Finally, she sighed and raised her head.

“Let’s go hold up our end of this bargain, then.”

The fight up the hill to the signal fire was swift, though tedious. They had to carve their way through two separate Venatori camps before they reached the crest of the coast. When the fighting had finally finished, Adaar left panting and Sera rolling her shoulder where a stonefist had his her, The Iron Bull whipped the blood splatter off his brow.

“We’re clear, Gatt,” he rumbled as Vivienne, despite her griping earlier in the day, moved to inspect Sera’s shoulder. He could hear the elf wince and swear under her breath as the Grand Enchanter brought healing magic to her fingers, which were resting gently atop the rouge’s collarbone.

“Right,” Gatt muttered as he bent down to light the fire. “Signaling the dreadnought.” The red flare that shot up from the fire brought a smile to The Iron Bull’s face. Despite all his nerves, things had worked out.

“The Chargers already sent theirs up,” he beamed, unable to hide the pride in his voice as he saw the distant figures of his men on the other hill. “See ‘em down there?”

“I knew you gave them the easier job,” Gatt chuckled as he turned his back from the ledge and returned to the group. The ringing alarm bells from the shore below could be heard before the dreadnought was visible to them through the fog, yet the sight of the ship, however distant, was oddly comforting.

“There’s the dreadnought. That brings back memories,” The Iron Bull smiled, watching as a few balls of fire went sailing up from the Qunari ship before colliding with the nearby Tevinter vessel, which suddenly seemed so tiny. “Nice one!” he laughed as he watched the smuggling ship began to take on water, quickly sinking below the tips of the waves. Their victory, however, turned out to be much shorter lived than any of them had hoped.

 _“Crap.”_ Six Venatori were approaching the Charger’s hill from the sandy shoreline as The Iron Bull’s heart began beating so loudly in his chest that all other noise seemed to melt away entirely. Suddenly the rain felt distant on his skin, his mind filled with fog as he watched his men take up their battle stances once more.

“The Chargers can’t stand against that kind of force!” Adaar somehow managed to keep her voice steady, though The Iron Bull could the panic quickly rising behind her eyes when her voice snapped him back to reality.

“No,” he said softly. “No, they can’t.”

“Your men need to hold that position, Bull,” Gatt insisted as the dreadnought continued moving along it’s course. The Iron Bull whirled, fury bubbling beneath his skin.

“They do that, they’re dead.”

“And if they don’t, the Venatori retake it and the dreadnought is dead,” Gatt countered. “You’d be throwing away an alliance between the Inquisition and the Qunari! You’d be declaring yourself Tal-Vashoth!” The viddathari’s eyes narrowed as he challenged The Iron Bull’s glare with a glare of his own, before softening his tone so that it was barely audible over the rain. “With all you’ve given the Inquisition, half the Ben-Hassrath think you’ve betrayed us already!” The Iron Bull growled low in his throat, his lips pulling back to expose his teeth. Gatt, seeing that diplomacy was getting him nowhere, quickly switched his tone from that of calm to that of anger. “I stood up for you, Hissrad! I told them you would _never_ become Tal-Vashoth!”

“They’re _my men_ ,” Bull all but snarled.

“I know. But you need to do what’s right Hissrad… for this alliance, and for the Qun.” The Iron Bull growled low again before turning to face Adaar, who’s stone-cold expression just barely managed to hide the blind panic tugging at the creases of her brow and the corners of her eyes.

“Boss,” the Bull said softly, watching as Adaar was snapped out of that place in her head where she had no doubt retreated again. “Boss, I can’t make this call.” Her eyes darted quickly to the Chargers, then to the Venatori mages, then to The Iron Bull, then back to the Chargers again.

“Boss, we don’t have a lot of time,” the Qunari persisted, struggling now to keep his own panic from rising in his voice. Adaar swallowed audibly, her laryngeal prominence bobbing dramatically as she did.

"Call the retreat."

"Don't!" Gatt cried.

"I said, _call the retreat_."

"You're making a mistake!"

"No, Gatt, _you're_ making a mistake," Adaar replied with an infuriating level of composure. "A rather insulting mistake, in truth. Did you really think I wouldn't see this little loyalty-game for what it was?" Though she played fool extraordinarily, convincing hillside bandits and Orlesian nobles alike that she was no more than a simple-minded beast, Adaar was as seasoned as the shield at her back and as sharp as the longsword at her side. _Damn,_ The Iron Bull thought. _She really would make a great agent._

"You said it yourself, half of the Ben-Hassrath already think Bull's Tal-Vashoth," Adaar continued. "I won't let you use the lives of my men to test _fealty_." 

"Gatt?" The Iron Bull said softly, begging that despite the truth making itself known in the pits of his stomach that somehow, in some way, this had all just been a mistake. The other Qunari refused to meet his eye.

"Damnit, Bull, _blow the blighted horn!"_ Adaar roared as Gatt’s eyes turned to steel. The horn was barley halfway towards his lips when Gatt murmured an apology from behind him. 

“I’m sorry it had to come to this, Hissrad, but I can’t let you do that.”

_* * * * *_

The Iron Bull woke with a start, his head screaming in protest as his eyes snapped open and his body attempted to jump to its feet. His brain was moving so slowly that it took a moment for The Iron Bull to register that the reason his body refused to stand fully was due to the metal shackles connecting both his wrists and his ankles securely to the floor below him. He shook his head, desperately trying to clear his mind. Everything was still foggy, his memory of how he had gotten there all but vacant from his mind as he looked around the room. There was a large wooden table in front of him, which matched the chair that he had knocked over as he had attempted to jump to his feet moments before. There were no windows, but a single door by which a familiar form was leaning against the wall, watching him with interest.

“About time you woke up,” Gatt said easily in Qunlat as the Iron Bull’s head swam. Then it all came back to him: The Storm Coast, the dreadnought, his boys up on the hill, the call for retreat—shit, had he managed to blow the horn?

“Where the fuck are we, Gatt?” Bull spat back in Trade as the elf placed a cup of water on the table between them, which the Qunari completely ignored.

“That is no concern of yours,” Gatt replied in an infuriatingly matter-of-fact tone.

“How the fuck long have I been here?”

“That is no concern of yours.”

“What the fuck happened to my men?”

“That is no concern—”

“Yes it fucking is, Gatt! What the fuck happened to my men?!” he roared, the water in the cup Gatt had offered rippling ever so slightly from the force of his rage. The viddathari’s lips pursed into a fine line, but he remained silent as The Iron Bull fumed. The Reaver attempted to lunge forward, but the chains bolting him to the ground allowed no such movement; rather, the Qunari simply lurched forward, shoving the table forward with a grating sound as he did.

“ _Kost_ , Hissrad,” Gatt said with a frown. _“Maraas shokra.”_

“Why. The fuck. Am I here?” Bull said through grated teeth, fury still raging like a fire within his veins.

“There were those among us who were all-too certain of where your loyalties would lie,” Gatt said with genuine regret in his voice. “As such… contingency plans were made.”

“Contingency plans?”

“The Viddasala considers you an invaluable asset,” Gatt continued with a hint of jealousy that was not lost to the Bull’s perceptive ears. He would be flattered, too, if the very idea of the Viddasala taking personal interest in his existence were not so fucking terrifying. And the story was not so fucking unbelievable. As it were, The Iron Bull found that the best course of action would be to wait and see how the whole situation would play out; thus, he picked up the chair, which was lying prone on the floor, then sat and listened as Gatt resumed speaking. “You still have purpose, Hissrad. Your lapse in judgment will be forgiven if you prove your worth.”

“And how, exactly, does the Viddasala expect me to do that?”

“We have a Tevinter prisoner who we need broken,” Gatt said with a shrug that made the whole situation seem much easier than it undoubtably was. “Our agents have had difficulty getting him to talk, and you’re one of the best interrogators we have. So, interrogate him.”

“Torture him, you mean,” Bull spat, the venom in his voice not lost on Gatt as the elf’s eyes narrowed. “And what makes you so sure I’m going to do any of this?”

“You don’t exactly have much of a choice, Hissrad.”

“That hasn’t ever stopped me before, _dathrasi_.”

“It would be wise to hold back your insults,” Gatt hissed, anger flaring up in his green eyes. “I’m giving you the chance of a lifetime, Hissrad. Don’t be so foolish as to throw it away for the sake of your pride.” As much as he hated to admit it, The Iron Bull knew that Gatt was right. He had disobeyed, his faith had waivered, and now he must pay the price for redemption. _A broken sword is a hundred nails waiting to become._

“So, who is this ‘Vint, anyway?” The Iron Bull huffed as he crossed his arms and leaned back in his chair, the chains on the floor restricting his movement such that he was barely able to lean back at all.

“If we knew that, the Viddasala would not have sent you here,” Gatt replied sharply. “We’ve had him for nearly a year now but have yet to get so much as a name out of him.” The Iron Bull snorted, impressed despite himself.

“Okay, but who _is_ he? Why does the Viddasala care so much about one tight-lipped ‘Vint?”

“We picked him up off a military vessel in the Ventosus Straits, right off the south-eastern coast of Seheron,” Gatt continued. “Our soldiers—the ones who survived, anyway—paint a rather concerning picture of his magical capabilities.”

“He’s a fucking _mage?!_ ” The Iron Bull gawked. “Kolsun’s balls, Gatt, why hasn’t he been given a fuck-load of qamek yet?”

“Because,” Gatt snapped, clearly becoming annoyed with all the interruptions, “he was a young, extraordinarily powerful mage found on a military vessel trying to covertly sail off the coast of the most contested region between Tevinter and Par Vollen. The Ben-Hassrath in the area deemed him likely to have important information about the war, and the Viddasala agreed. If we gave him qamek, all that knowledge would be lost. He’d be a mindless husk. His potential knowledge is worth the risk.”

“And so, my job is to get him to talk, right?” the Bull sighed, rubbing a calloused hand over his remaining eye as his brain swam with the implications. He had disobeyed, abandoned the Qun, deserted his calling, and yet, despite all that, he was being given a chance. All he had to do was break one more ‘Vint.

“Precisely,” Gatt replied.

“Can’t exactly have me do that while also keeping me locked up, now can you?”

“Oh,” Gatt said with an insufferable glint of remorse in his eyes, “I don’t think that’ll be a problem.

“Damnit, let me out!” The Iron Bull roared as he flung his entire bodyweight at the cell door. The steel hinges groaned in complaint but refused to do so much as even shift out of place. The other Ben-Hassrath had just introduced him to his new lovely little prison cell, but he would be lying if he said he was happy about the whole arrangement. He still had no idea where he was, but the prison was cold enough that the Reaver guessed they had not traveled too far north during his time unconscious; whatever poison Gatt had used to incapacitate him on the Storm Coast was strong, but nothing he knew of would be so potent as to keep him unawares for that long of a trip. Bull slammed into the door again, putting extra force into his shoulder as he did, but again the solid metal slab stayed steadfastly positioned in the wall. It was only after his fifth attempted to force his prison open that a small voice from the next cell over rang up.

“If you plan to beat yourself to death on that door, would you mind speeding it up? I was having a rather lovely dream that I do ever so wish to return to.”

 _About damn time,_ The Iron Bull thought to himself as he rubbed his bruised shoulder. The voice, wherever it came from, might have sounded regal if it were not so entirely enervated; as it was, the cracking voice of the stranger, who’s vocal cords had no doubt been screamed raw long ago, made The Iron Bull’s own throat ache in sympathy. _Well, at least he seems to be the talkative type._

“Who’s there?” he called.

“No one of import, I assure you,” the man croaked, The Iron Bull hearing chains clink melodically as the man shifted.

“I doubt that, if they’re keeping you here,” the Bull grunted, making a point of placing his back against the wall before audibly sliding to the floor. The stranger did not reply this time, only shifted again. The Iron Bull sighed.

“My name’s The Iron Bull,” he offered. _Is it?_

“That’s certainly a peculiar name.”

“Yeah, I get that a lot,” The Iron Bull admitted. “I’m the captain of a mercenary company, the Bull’s Chargers,” he explained. _Am I?_

“So they’re the Chargers and you’re the Bull. That’s clever,” the man chuckled, although it quickly turned into a grating cough that made the Reaver wince.

“You were quick to work that one out.”

“Well, I am known for nothing if not my incredible wit and intellect,” the stranger drawled. “And humility, of course.”

“Naturally,” the Iron Bull chuckled in return. “You’d be surprised to know how long it takes some nobles to get the connection,” he continued, smiling at the opportunity that had just planted itself perfectly before him. The chains across the hall jingled softly as the mage stiffened, then silence fell for a few moments before the man preformed an audibly painful swallow.

“And what makes you think I’m a noble?”

“Your voice,” The Iron Bull lied with a shrug, though he realized the man could not see it. “I’ve done a lot of jobs for nobles. Doesn’t matter where they’re from—Ferelden, Antiva, Tevinter, Orlais—they all sound the same. It’s only the accents that change.”

The stranger was silent again, so silent that for a split second The Iron Bull suddenly wondered if he was still breathing, before a painful-sounding sigh echoed across the stone walls. The noble gambit had simply been an educated guess based on the man’s infamy as an incredibly powerful mage, combined with the cadence of his voice and the regency of his tone; the man’s response had simply confirmed The Iron Bull’s suspicions.

“Well, who I was a lifetime ago is of no consequence,” the man whispered so softly that the words were barely audible. “I’m nobody. I have no House, not anymore.”

“Well,” The Iron Bull replied with a sigh, “nice to meet you, Nobody of House No-One.” Then, despite himself, he smiled. “D’ya come here often?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Itwa-adim = "they all fall"  
> Kost = "peace"  
> Maraas shokra = "there is nothing to struggle against"  
> Dathrasi = an insult, similar to calling someone a pig  
> Qamek = substance given to mages captured by the Qun, which turns the mages into mindless workers (with no access to the Fade)


End file.
